Page 92 of The Painter and His Poet

“Harlow,” I begin, my voice rough as I reach for her arm.

Her gaze drops to my hand, heat spreading across her cheeks. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she whispers, tensing beneath my touch.

“We need to talk,” I snap, my lingering anger at her mother making my request sound harsher than I’d intended. “Why the fuck do you let her speak to you like that?”

She jerks her head up, eyes widening at the anger in my tone, and try as I might I can’t seem to dampen it enough to make her relax in my presence. I’m not angry at her, not at all. I’m angry at her mother for being such a bitch. I’m just about to tell her as much when I hear said bitch’s voice echoing along the hallway.

“Darling, I was just telling Sterling that you were looking for him.”

Harlow tenses, and I withdraw my hand.

“Fuck sake,” I mutter.

She looks at me, fear dancing across her flushed face as our parent’s exchange small talk, but I don’t have any time to put her at ease before my father strides into the room a few moments later.

“There you are,” he says, eyeing me, his brow lifting as he notices my state of relative undress.

“Here I am,” I reply, taking a sip of my coffee as Harlow shifts on her feet beside me.

I’m not sure if she’s uncomfortable because of the tension between us, if it’s because her mother just talked to her likeshe’s a piece of shit, or that my father isn’t bothering to hide his annoyance as he glares at me.

“I’ve been meaning to have a conversation with you, but it seems you’ve been avoiding all ofus,” he remarks, the warning to his tone not going unnoticed.

If he knew the real reason I’ve been keeping myself out of the way, I’m sure this would be a very different conversation right now. Instead, I shrug. “I’ve been busy. What do you want?”

“Too busy to spend time with yourfamily?” he asks, giving me a pointed look. “I’m sure Harlow would’ve appreciated you making an effort. Wouldn’t you, Harlow?”

“And I’m sure Harlow has better things to do with her time than hanging around with me. Right, Harlow?” I retort, throwing her a look that can only be interpreted one way.

She flinches at the carefully constructed hostility, and I feel like a fucking prick. But I’m doing this to protect her. If I’m too eager to spend time with her then his suspicions will be aroused, but if I don’t show at least some annoyance or resentment at being forced to play happy families then that’ll only add to his suspicions. Either way, it’s a fine line I have to walk, and believe me I’m teetering on the edge. I’m not sure how long I can do this before I make my true feelings known.

“It’s fine,” she mumbles. “I’ve been busy catching up on some emails. Mom mentioned that her agent wants you to attend an interview together…” Her voice trails off as he scowls.

“Absolutely not. Any interviews that we do together I will decide upon.”

“Of course,” Harlow whispers, wincing at the tone of his voice.

“Please forward me the details as soon as you have a moment,” he adds with a patient smile, that mask he loves to wear slotting into place. Harlow’s shoulders relax a little, and I hate that she doesn’t see through his pretence.

“Sure. Um, okay,” Harlow replies.

“Perfect. Now, back to the point at hand,” he says, focussing his attention on me. “Sterling a word.”

“In a minute. I’m just having this coffee, spending time with Harlow. That’s whatyouwant isn’t it?” I reply, making no move to leave. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Harlow curl in on herself, her shoulders rounding, and not for the first time I feel like an absolute cunt.

“It’s fine. I’ll go,” she says.

My father’s nostrils flare sensing her unease as he fires me another filthy look. “Finish your coffee, then come see me in my office,” he commands, before striding out of the kitchen.

I wait a few moments before turning to Harlow who looks about ready to bolt. “Harlow,” I begin.

“You probably shouldn’t antagonise him,” she replies, placing her coffee on the counter as she takes a step away from me.

“He’ll survive, but I’m not sure I will if you don’t give me a moment of your time,” I say softly, placing my own cup of coffee on the counter and stepping towards her.

“You don’t have to feel like you should be spending time with me,” she replies, and there’s no hiding the hurt in her voice.

“Harlow, that isn’t–”

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